To Reply in French
by Crystal Shores
Summary: The sequel to "To Speak in French". The aftermath of Hermione's little slip of the tounge may provide some interesting, albeit utterly expected results with a certain Potions Master. When further chaos ensues as the result of a mistaken potion, facts simply have to be faced, though of course not without a generous amount of lemon drops. SS/HG, finally finished!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. I do not own the Harry Potter series. Go figure! :)**

**A/N: This is the TwoShot sequel to _To Speak in French_. A little thing, but you asked for it! Enjoy!**

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****To Reply in French-Part One**

Albus Dumbledore belonged to a unique class of people most commonly referred to as Meddling Old Fools. He had never thought of himself as such, in fact he hardly had the time to think of himself at all. There were students to protect from Meddling Adults (never ever to be confused with Meddling Old Fools, they are far less helpful), a school to protect from Ridiculous Politicians (still worse than Meddling Adults), and the occasional teacher to protect from himself. But when Dumbledore _did_ think about himself, it was to reflect on what he had and hadn't done correctly in his attempts to help people.

Because Albus loved nothing more.

And on that particular evening, he was very satisfied with himself for having convinced the Ministry not to eradicate Arthur Weasley's job and very disappointed that he hadn't thought to stop in Hogsmeade to restock his lemon drop supply, which was frighteningly low at the moment. In this semi-content and cery-ponderous state of mind, he was nearly flattened by one Miss Hermione Granger who was running for her common room as though six Horntails were on _her_ tail. After recovering, Albus smiled.

"In a hurry, Miss Granger?" he asked politely. Hermione shook her head to the negative.

"No-no, Professor," she stammered breathlessly. Evidently, she'd had a long run from wherever she'd started. "Sorry, Professor. I forgot something, Professor. I mean, I didn't want to miss curfew, Professor."

"Well, there's little danger of that, Miss Granger," he said with a twinkle in his eye, gesturing to a nearby clock. Hermione gave an odd little laugh.

"Of course not!" she replied in a too-high voice. "I mean, why would I miss curfew? That would be…silly! I only meant that I was tired, Professor. Very, very tired."

"Who wouldn't be, after such a long run?" The Headmaster studied her intently over his glasses. "Miss Granger," he said at length. "Are you alright?" Hermione visibly slumped in despair.

"I," she said, very near tears. "Am absolutely fine. Only," she paused, glancing hither and thither for inspiration. "Oh, it's all ruined! I'm sorry, Professor. I have to go…goodnight." Casting a quick glance in the general direction of the castle dungeons, she ran off once more. Albus watched her go thoughtfully

"Well," he said at last, addressing the (very ugly) gargoyle to his right. "I have come to a very important conclusion." He paused, as though looking for the right words. "I will send Minerva to Hogsmeade for the lemon drops."

* * *

The next morning, everyone in the Gryffindor common room was acutely aware of Hermione Granger's state of unease. One little first year had the extreme misfortune of asking her for help with a potions problem, to which her reply was a sort of garbled, panicked half-sentence followed by the explosion of her transfiguration notes. The resulting papercuts sent said first year to Madame Pomfrey and Hermione, unwilling to harm anyone else, removed herself to the library.

Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley watched her leave with no small amount of concern. Both had been unable to learn anything the night before, but present in both was an extreme annoyance with their Potions Master.

"Snape did something." Harry turned to Ginny. "Is there anything she did in particular? Was she…I dunno, making fun of his class or something? Maybe he hexed her for it."

"No," Ginny replied, the concern in her voice unmistakable. "She was actually defending it…well, defending him, really. But it wouldn't matter anyway because she wasn't speaking properly. At least, not in English." Harry nodded.

"Well, that's it, then. Snape just assumed she was making fun of him. The git." He sighed. "I hope Hermione's okay." Suddenly, there was a commotion at the common room door.

"Let me in! I have to see Ginny!" came the unmistakable voice of Luna.

"But you're not allowed in-!" The blonde girl pushed past Ron and ran over to Ginny, eyes wide.

"Luna, what's wrong?" Ginny asked worriedly. Luna had been running and was breathing heavily.

"Professor Snape!" she managed to gasp. Harry was instantly alert.

"What's the old bat done now?" he asked heatedly. "Where's Hermione?" Luna chose to ignore Harry and turned to Ginny, eyes wide with worry.

"Ginny," she whispered nervously. "In third year, when the Beauxbatons were here, I heard Professor Snape talking to Madame Maxime." Harry visibly blanched.

"Luna, if this is about some rumor that Snape and Maxime fancy each other, then I don't want to hear it."

"No," Luna said urgently. "You don't understand, Harry Potter." She looked Ginny in the eye and continued in a horrified whisper. "I only remember because he was talking in _French_!" Harry didn't understand the look of horror that came over Ginny's face at that revelation.

* * *

After dropping six books, twice screeching that students had "snuck up on her", tripping over a chair and spilling ink all over the school's only copy of _Memory Charms Demystified_ by Gilderoy Lockhart (a personal favorite of Irma Pince, the Hogwarts librarian), Hermione was unceremoniously thrown out of the library and told to get a Calming Draught from Madame Pomfrey while she was at it. At present, she was sitting in the infirmary, literally wringing her hands with anxiety. Madame Pomfrey surveyed her sternly.

"Year in and year out with these examinations," she said disapprovingly. "Students dropping left and right with anxiety and panic attacks. Though to be honest, you are the _very_ last I expected to see. Well, nothing for it but a Calming Draught. Lie down and try to relax. I'll go fetch one." The healer walked briskly out of the infirmary, smiling ever-so-slightly to herself. Poppy had worked in the Hogwarts infirmary for years and knew without a doubt _that_ was certainly not examination panic.

Having spent a month with Hermione in the child's second year, she had come to have a sort of fondness for the girl, and a conversation with a certain Headmaster concerning said girl had given the aging Healer an idea. Dumbledore was by far clever enough to put one and one together, particularly when he had known one and one so very long. He trusted Poppy with his information.

You see, Poppy belonged to a unique class of people most commonly referred to as Meddling Old Fools.

* * *

Severus Snape was grading essays with a determined ferocity that would have frightened most witnesses. As it was, the only "witness" was a dung beetle in a jar, no doubt left by that thick-skulled Longbottom, who was forever finding "pets" on the Hogwarts grounds.

And the dung beetle was not frightened of Snape's muttered curses.

Hermione Granger had not been in class that day. Not that Snape cared to see that impertinent, brown-eyed know-it-all in his class, thank you very much. But the conversation from the night before had all of the right ingredients for _trouble_. Should that little girl say just the wrong thing, he would have the Almighty Wrath of Dumbledore crashing around his ears.

Or worse, the Meddling Old Fool might get it into his head that Severus had some sort of _feelings_ for the insolent Head Girl, and that would _never_ do.

And of course he didn't know Hermione's eyes were brown. That would mean he had _looked_ at them.

And since when did he start calling her Hermione?

With an extra bit of ferocity, he graded yet another essay T without actually going through the trouble of reading it. It was then that the knock sounded at his door.

"Enter," he replied impatiently, frowning in distaste at the unidentifiable brown goo decorating the corner of a first year's essay.

"Severus," Albus said with calm urgency, rushing into the room. "There's been an accident in the infirmary. It would appear that Madame Pomfrey has given a rather large dose of Swiftening Serum to a student who was in need of a Calming Draught." The Potions Master glanced at the Headmaster and sighed the sigh of one exhausted by the sheer and recurring idiocy of the world.

"How much Calming Draught did she administer? If one dose, give another. If two, adverse effects should wear off within the hour. If three…surely she isn't that asinine. If three, the student will sleep through tomorrow's study sessions." With this, he went back to the first year's essay. Dumbledore looked up from a jar of multi-colored bubbly substance he'd been examining with an almost imperceptible smile. He turned to Snape.

"Oh, did I forget to mention?" he asked calmly. "We appear to be out of Calming Draught." Snape dropped his quill.

"I brewed a new batch last week," he said, standing up as he did so. "What happened to that?"

"Examination panic has been at an all-time high this year, what with Voldemort's return," Dumbledore suggested, turning back to the bubbly substance. "Perhaps the supply was depleted quickly because of that?" But Snape had already rushed off, taking a vial with him.

Dumbledore allowed himself a small chuckle.

* * *

Seamus Finnegan had been sitting under a Hogwarts window, minding his own business and studying for exams like a good student. Suddenly, a large glass bottle fell from the sky and shattered on his head.

He yelled in surprise as the contents of the bottle, a filmy liquid, proceeded to drench him.

"Oi! Who threw that?!" he demanded in annoyance. "So help me, if that's you, Owen…blimey." He swayed slightly. "Bit fuzzy today…innit?" The boy slumped into the grass.

Elsewhere in the castle, Meddling Old Fool Poppy Pomfrey had rushed to find Dumbledore. They were out of Calming Draught, and poor Miss Granger had just been overdosed on Swiftening Serum.

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**A/N: Review please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is the part where you all decide to kill me, which is understandable. I had completely forgotten about this story (in fact, I had completely forgotten about this account) and, actually, had typed this chapter ages ago and assumed I uploaded it. I'm not sure whether any of my original readers are still out there, but if you are, I want to thank you all for the messages of encouragement. My mother has recovered since her cancer diagnosis, and things finally seem normal (well, as normal as they can be).**

**Owing to the sheer length of this, the story has evolved into more of a Three- or Four-Shot than a Two-. Let's hope I never go so long between updates again!**

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**To Reply in French - Part Two**

He would have faced a boggart rather than confess it.

He would have taken an entire goblet of Nightmare Elixir instead of allowing it to be known.

Yes, Professor Snape would sooner swallow his own tongue than admit that he actually cared about his students.

It wasn't as though he particularly cared about them as individuals or wanted to go prancing through the hallways preaching flowery lessons of love and tolerance - on the contrary, he took as much delight as any alumni in urging Slytherin on to decimate all others in the inter-house rivalry. But he was a teacher. Teaching had instilled in him a peculiar sensibility that overtook his nightmares of former mistakes and replaced them with terrifying dreams in which one or more of his students accidentally injured themselves out of sheer stupidity.

He would never forget the day Neville Longbottom entered his classroom and proceeded to overturn a tureen of Blistering Bog Juice onto his toad's head. In retrospect, having doused Peter Pettigrew in the foulest-smelling substance on earth was a triumph, but at the time it had rendered the instructor white-hot with seething fury. One of his gaggle of toad spittle-for brains students might have gotten _hurt_. That was the true root of his anger. He could not allow that.

As he frantically charged through hallway after hallway, blasting through first-years like so many ninepins, Severus Snape tried to convince himself that the reason for the panic coursing through his veins was his teaching. Any student overdosing on Swiftening Serum would have worried him. Of course, Hermione wasn't just any student…

That is, _Miss Granger _was not any student…or rather, she was just a student, nothing more.

Even he didn't believe himself.

* * *

From her first year, Hermione had an unnervingly accurate habit of detecting his bad days. Whether some putrid second-year had poisoned herself trying to brew a hair dying potion or something deeper afflicted him, Severus learned very quickly to expect the sharp rap of one Hermione Granger on his office door.

He could recall with perfect clarity that first day she had boldly strode into his office, bearing a mug of tea roughly the size of her head and matter-of-factly rattling on that her mother said "tea was the cure for all things and that proper dental care was the cure for tea-stained teeth." He could never figure out what prompted her to think he needed it that day; the anniversary of the day he met Lily Evans. It was only the first of countless visits.

He greeted her the same way every time. "Can you not find someone else in this school to torment with your incessant prattle, Miss Granger?" She always ignored him and proceeded to needle him until he gave some clue as to his ire. Little by little, he found himself looking forward to her frequent appearances, accustomed to her face.

When in her third year, he had found her sobbing in exhaustion amidst a stack of essays for her countless classes, instead of a characteristic lecture on the stupidity of Time-Turners being granted to underage witches, he found himself awkwardly assuming a position on the ground next to her, whereupon she clung to him as though he were her lifeline.

Of course he cared about her. She wanted to teach, so it was only natural he should care to foster her career. Any good professor would.

But he knew he was not a very good professor, and this persuaded him to bottle up any feelings he may have had. Until that day…

* * *

In sheer dread, Severus ran and cursed the day he learned French to speak to his Muggle grandmother. It was frightfully inconvenient, you see, to try convincing oneself that the object of one's affection meant nothing when said object was overheard vehemently defending one's honor. _"I like Professor Snape!"_ Her words, not his.

No, Hermione was far from being just any student. But any student could die, and if he did not intervene, this would be her fate.

You see, Swiftening Serum belongs to a unique class of potions most commonly referred to as Ghastly Stuff. It also belonged to the Only-In-The-Case-Of-An-Emergency-Lock-It-Up-In-Your-Cupboard-In-A-Box-On-A-High-Shelf-And-Never-Ever-Use-If-Possible-Only-As-A-Last-Resort family of potions. It is a heartbeat rapidity enhancer, and for use only if the patient in question is on the brink of death from a slow heartbeat. Often as not, the potion killed the person taking it by increasing the heart rate too much. An overdose was catastrophic. His heart took up the count for the number of seconds Hermione had left in this waking world with him.

Not with _him_, of course. With the general populace. With her confounded thirty million questions and teetering stacks of books which she toted from class to class, peering intently over them with her intelligent, sparkling brown eyes.

Not that _he_ knew what color her eyes were.

As he approached the doorway to the infirmary, the professor found himself suddenly overcome with terror that his Hermione would never grace a classroom as a teacher, never ask her six billionth question, and never barge into his office demanding that he cheer up.

Not that he cared.

* * *

From a discreet corner, a certain pair of twinkly-eyed Meddling Old Fools watched with unconcealed glee as the distraught potions master practically flew into the infirmary. They were immediately so engrossed with trying to hear what was being said behind the door that they did not notice the sharp footsteps approaching from behind until one very irate Minerva McGonagal hissed out to both of them.

"I have _never _been more astonished at the behavior of two people - and staff nonetheless!" she seethed from beneath a vivid green hat. "And no use playing coy with me - the walls have ears! What have you done to poor Miss Granger?" Albus smiled serenely at the bristling witch and, with complete honesty answered.

"Nothing at all, Minerva."

"But," added an impish Poppy. "Severus hardly knows that, now does he?"

In that instant, the duo of Meddlers became a trio, and any passing student would have been horrified to see three grown adults pressing their ears to the door like first-years.

Not that they were eavesdropping. That would be unprofessional.

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**A/N: I remember always asking people to review, but years have added a little to that: if you review, please be honest! It makes me a better writer if I can hear honest critiques...**

**Unless you are comparing me to a certain author who writes novels about vampires who sparkle. I'm afraid that my love of ****_Sanctuary _****prohibits any disco ball-emulating blood-suckers.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Oh my dear sweet sanity, God bless anyone reading this. Life happened, and I had to let go of things, and FanFiction was one of the first things I dropped for time's sake.**

**I did learn French, more or less. C'est tres tragique I did not before, since it would have informed the story in very positive ways, I think, had I known the language from the start.**

**Then again, isn't that life? If we wait for the perfect times, we will never get anything done at all. I do hope you all enjoy this conclusion, or at the very least enjoy that it has concluded. It's better to hate the ending than not have an ending to hate, I think.**

**Thanks for all the lovely notes, especially from those who had an idea of the chaos going on. This is dedicated to myself, actually. If I never write another FanFiction or write a thousand, I can find joy in moments like these.**

**You're all brilliant. Do awesome things!**

**-Crystal**

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Beginnings in life are peculiar things because they are seldom noticed until middles or ends. One might, for example, wake up one day and realize that one's ever-receding hairline is due to one's inexplicable habit of casting aesthetic charms in one's sleep, and until that moment one doesn't realize how horribly memorable Madame Mireille's Mostly Magnificent charms lecture circuit actually was, and then one must live one's life as a charms professor with a frightfully shiny head.

In other circumstances, beginnings are hard to identify because Fate must be sneaky. Falling in love, for example, is not something most people do on purpose. So to get 'round a pair's unwillingness to cooperate with a Very Good Thing, Fate often twists in tiny moments throughout life which will lead to an inevitable Event.

This moment, in the lives of Hermione Jean Granger and Severus Snape, was not only the beginning of something profoundly beautiful, but the culmination of roughly eight hundred tiny things which created a beginning entirely unexpected by no-one save the pair in question.

* * *

The endless fights between Tobias and Eileen Snape sent young Severus to the library more often than not, and though he would sooner take a flying leap off the astronomy tower than provide his first edition copy as proof of his enthusiasm, it was there he first discovered the story of Emma Woodhouse, a girl who somehow married someone sixteen years her senior without anyone batting so much as an eyelash. Of course he loved tea; tea touched the tiny part of his cynical heart that secretly hoped his own parents would learn to behave like the people in his book.

Even Very Much Grown-Up Snape still had his inner child intact, that part of him that held a flare of hope he wished he could ignore.

* * *

Of course Hermione had read _Emma_ as a child. Her perfection-seeking parents wanted nothing more than a perfect little Oxford graduate who spoke Latin and knew all the classics. Of course she loved it! It was romantic and exciting and everything her expected life was not. Pursuit of knowledge for the fun of it rather than the prestige was still her hallmark, but every girl wants a fairytale.

* * *

And naturally, they both grew up despising the idea of normalcy, the oppressiveness of ignorance, and anything pertaining to that unholy concept of decaffeinating one's tea. Fate knew nothing short of miracles would prompt the arrogance of intellectuals to risk offending sense and reason. Falling in love is not reasonable; this is why most must be pushed.

* * *

Seamus Finnegan had the oddest of dreams. In the dream, he was a giant slug in a great garden, and three trees were very intently attempting to squish their heads through a solid door. He turned to see a great black bat come screeching into the garden behind him and practically jump a cat sitting pathetically on a giant mushroom.

The cat and the bat gurgled at each other quite horribly, and the bat took off its wings and tried to put them onto the cat.

He would later insist that the dream had ended with himself valiantly vanquishing the giant bat when he was discovered by Owen Flaherty (who, upon finding his best friend dead to the world in a bush, naturally availed himself of the chance to draw eighteen rude words on Seamus' face), but the dream in fact then turned to a cavalcade of dancing lemon drops, which is not at all what actually happened.

* * *

As Hermione sat completely befuddled beneath Snape's black cloak, the potions master dashed around the infirmary cursing Poppy for not being there and telling Hermione not to panic and cursing himself for ever taking up potions and wishing he had been killed in the war and urging Hermione _not _to panic and knocking things over and setting a bed on fire by accident and losing his wand and in general was _exceptionally_ panic-inducing.

It was odd, seeing him in hysterics. It suddenly struck Hermione that for something to be bad enough to merit his worry, it had to be near-catastrophic, and the befuddlement gave way to panic. She leaped off the bed with all the grace of a recently anthropomorphicized toadstool and collided head-on with the potions master with a terrific thud that would have outdone Norse mythos.

* * *

Outside the door, the rooted professors all started. In that noble tradition of all Fidgety Frans, Minerva instantly switched her stance.

"Oh, this is madness!" she hissed. "They'll kill each other as soon as be sensible. Albus, do something this instant."

The venerated headmaster was used to such outbursts of panic and as such completely ignored it. Meanwhile, Poppy practically had the entire side of her head glued to the door listening to her precious infirmary being quite upended and sighed the pained sigh of one who would soon be scrubbing Essence of Erta Alean Beetlewax out of corners.

* * *

As the two generally composed weavers of magic sat unceremoniously next to each other on the floor sporting concussions and the bed previously set ablaze began to melt, something very peculiar happened. Without any attempt at social mores, completely unwound, each saw the other in their entirety for the first time.

"Hermione, I…" Snape fumbled slowly.

"Yes?" she replied, fixated.

"I…don't think you have actually been overdosed on anything." He nearly whispered it, as though it were some great secret, as though it meant something else.

"Why do you speak French?" Hermione asked, though she never would have.

"Because I learned it," he answered dully. He felt a million miles away talking to her like this, like a normal person. She seemed extremely distraught, and he knew it had to have been his doing, this entire mess.

"Hermione," he said after a moment, and he would later laugh at himself over how horrifically awkward he became in that moment. "Would you like…perhaps a cup of tea might help?"

"Help what?" she asked, just as dazed by the odd feelings coursing through her like exceptionally good coffee. Snape realized he didn't know what he was meant to help, only that he wanted to very much.

"Perhaps your mother," he paused. "It may be she was right. I know tea always helps me, especially from…" he trailed, uncertain. It was one thing to uncover a schoolgirl crush, but quite another to assume any position of relationship, or even friendship to a student afterwards. Particularly when one was as undesirable a mate as he was certain he was. Rather suddenly, Hermione snorted, attempted to hide it, and finally laughed.

"This," she gestured vaguely, staring amusedly at the charred remains of the bed next to her. "Is all ridiculous." She looked decidedly at the ground. "But tea does sound nice."

And the pair did laugh at themselves then, and again over tea that night, and again when they saw each other in the hallway the next day.

* * *

Of course they didn't kiss then; that came much later, in a moment both perfectionists attempted to make faultless and which ended with Hermione in the lake and Severus rescuing her from a tree that was not supposed to be disappearing.

Of course they weren't married soon thereafter; that came even later, after both established themselves in the Potions community and Hermione dragged her ex-professor on so many field trips to ancient caves of sorcery that he felt marriage was necessary to save honor, though of course he respected her more than anyone he had ever known.

Of course they had children, of course both were terrified they would become their parents, of course the children were happy, of course the tea had caffeine, of course they reread _Emma_, and of course they spoke French.

Some will claim the mishap in the infirmary was their beginning, others will claim it was the misbegotten game or the moment Hermione took up French. But if you ask one twinkly-eyed headmaster, it is all very simple.

"Albus," snorted Minerva. "Much as it might surprise you, the stories of the world do not in fact begin or end with _you_."

"Of course not," Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Stories can all be traced to one, mythic source."

With that, he pulled a bag of lemon drops from his desk and offered them to Minerva, who rolled her eyes with a half-smile.

_Le destin prend de nombreuses forms_, after all.

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**A/N: Review, don't review, go drink some tea, hug someone. I don't control your life any more than I own this story, which, for the purpose of disclaimer, I do not.**


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